


glass

by paradoxicalconverse



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Non-Explicit Sex, Pre-Villianelle, really it's mainly a character study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-22
Updated: 2019-03-22
Packaged: 2019-11-27 22:26:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18199820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paradoxicalconverse/pseuds/paradoxicalconverse
Summary: She flinches when your tray slams down onto her table and her eyes betray some sort of hurt when you sit down in front of her. The cornbread can wait. You want to read her like a book, first. “Hello,” you say. She blinks and her hands fold over themselves. “You are nervous.”You’ve always been good with the ladies.ORA look into Oksana's years in prison.





	glass

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first killing eve/villanelle fic so play nice
> 
> find me on [tumblr](https://please-say-nine.tumblr.com) for more linguistic nonsense

The first time you see her shambling into the prison block, she looks like hell. Her eyes are blackened and sunken, brown hair brittle and thin under the excuse of a bandana she’s got wrapped around her head like some sad sort of saving grace; the only thing keeping her mind intact, you suppose. She looks pathetic.

You want her. 

You learn her name is Nadia the next day. The guards are surprisingly nice to her; one sneaks her an extra piece of cornbread during dinner that night. They do not beat her so hard when she cries.

You want her, but an extra piece of cornbread wouldn’t hurt either. 

She flinches when your tray slams down onto her table and her eyes betray some sort of hurt when you sit down in front of her. The cornbread can wait. You want to read her like a book, first. “Hello,” you say. She blinks and her hands fold over themselves. “You are nervous.”

You’ve always been good with the ladies. 

She stares at you a bit more, much like how a mouse might attempt to stare down a cat that’s backed them into a corner. 

It’s a fitting metaphor, really; she looks mousy. She’s got the features. She’s a gentle sort of beautiful, like a smooth piece of glass begging to be shattered. You cock your head and stare her down for a bit, your hands stroking the sides of your tray as you wait for her to reply. After a moment of unperturbed silence, you’ve had enough. 

She flinches again when you stand, pulling your tray up with you. A stray piece of hair falls in front of your eye, somehow having managed to work itself out of the cinched bandana around your head. You blow it out of the way and stare her down for another moment. 

God, do you want her.

“You talk too much,” you finally say, and dump your entire tray in the trash before marching away. 

 

“Do you want to know my name?” You ask. 

She’s sitting against the fence, staring up at the sky when you decide to come up to her. It’s been three weeks since dinner and she has yet to say a word to you. You don’t mind so much. She tells you enough when you catch her looking at you from across the courtyard everyday. 

“I will tell you if you tell me yours.”

Of course you already know it. But she has no reason to know that; it’s odd, how people are like that. She’ll feel so much more comfortable if she thinks she has that little secret to hold against you. A bargaining chip in a game she has yet to realize she’s already lost. 

“Nadia,” she whispers. 

You grin and roll it around in your mouth, tasting it. It’s different when she says it. It’s not a title for her, but a curse she bears, something that lives under her skin. She’s terrified of her own name.

God, you want her. 

“I am Oksana,” you say. 

She nods, and doesn’t talk to you for five more weeks. 

 

Maybe it was a cruel set up, but you’ve never been one for decencies. 

One small bag of cocaine, hardly an ounce. You’d slipped it under her tray when she hadn’t been looking and three minutes later she was crying out on the ground as the guards beat her. It hurts your heart to hear her shriek, but only a little. You jump in anyway, breaking the jaw of one guards beating her and cracking a rib because of it. 

God, the pain feels so good as it blooms against your chest. You wish you could revel in it.

She’s become nothing more than a sobbing mess on the floor, completely docile. Tears and blood stain the ground beneath her until an uninjured guard hoists her over his shoulder. Another pulls your arms behind your back. 

You’d started to miss your weekly visits to The Hole, anyway.

 

You plan works, of course. It always does. Nadia appears in your doorway the day after you’d both been released from your respective isolation. She’s got a sling on one arm and a heavy array of fingerprint bruises around her neck from when she’d been throttled after the guard had seen the cocaine when she’d picked up her tray. 

She stares at you, and you stare back.

“You fought for me,” she says after a moment. “When I was getting beaten, you…you fought the guards even though it meant you were going to The Hole with me. You fought for me.” It’s music to your ears. You always get what you want. 

“You are still nervous,” you say. 

It’s a wonder she isn’t swooning on the spot.

“May I come in?” she asks. Her fingers fidget with the hem of her dress.

You scoot to the side of your bed and she hesitantly comes over and sits down. “Let me see you,” you say, and beckon her with your hands. 

There are far too many words being exchanged right now, too many pleasantries, but it’s what she needs. So you can give her sweet nothings if it means you will have her. 

“I am hideous right now,” she says, ducking her head. She moves into anyway and lets your hands draw patterns against her back. 

You’re not sure how true that is. She’s not the smooth glass anymore; she’s scratched and cracked, chipped away at the edges. She still begs to be shattered. 

Your hand drifts down to the hem of her shirt and your hand runs over the cool skin of her back; your fingers can taste welts and bruises against her skin. You will make her feel good, you decide. 

She breathes in when your hand snakes around to her stomach, up her abdomen, to play with her ribs that are so clearly defined. Then, slowly, higher, higher, until she chokes back her own breath and sinks back against you, her back against your chest. 

The door is wide open but you have no bother to shut it as her eyes roll into the back of her head, drowning in ecstasy. 

 

She’s touchy after sex. She wants to stay leaned up against you with your arms wrapped around her, wants you to press kisses behind her ears. Sex is pleasure of the body; this is pleasure of the mind. You have no desire to sink into it but it would be out of character for you not to, at this point, after framing her for drug hustling and then getting yourself thrown into The Hole with her in an act of solidarity. 

So your wrap your arms around her and let her lean back into you until the guards find you like that and beat you both for violating prison guidelines. 

 

Five more weeks pass and she’s fallen in love with you.

 

You enjoy her. You enjoy the way she shakes when you work your hand between her legs and the little smiles she sends you from across the table when you eat. 

She’s none the wiser when things change. She doesn’t know. 

Sweat beads her brow as you pull your fingers from inside her and push them between her lips to suck them clean; she enjoys that more than you do but you certainly won’t complain. “We will get out of here,” she says. Her tongue works over the tip of one of your fingers. 

You scoff. “I do not believe in fairy tales.”

“No,” she says, and it’s such a firm answer that it actually takes you back. The glass of her words bites into your skin.

“What?” You ask.

“We will get out of here one day,” she says again. She turns to you. “Someone is coming to get me in three months. He will take you, too. I will make it so.”

You can feel your heart stop in your chest. “Who?”

“A man. Konstantin Vasiliev.”

Konstantin Vasiliev. That is a name you can appreciate. 

“Who is he?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugs. “He came to me; he said he wants to train me. I don’t know much more than that. He will take us both.”

You’ve missed The Hole recently, but you’ve missed freedom a tiny bit more. 

 

You convince Nadia to let you meet him first. She had been hesitant, out of fear, but it had taken little when you reassured her that it was for her safety. That you’d always come back for her. 

 

Konstantin Vasiliev is a kind-looking man with hardened eyes—or maybe he is a hardened man with kind eyes. You are not sure yet. “You are not Nadia,” he says in Russian. You purse your lips. 

“I do not speak Russian,” you say.

He regards you for a moment. You decide he’s a hardened man with kind eyes, after all. “You speak Russian,” he replies. 

“I will not speak Russian.”

“You are not Nadia.”

Oh, you like this man.

“I am here on behalf of her,” you say after a moment. “She says you can take us both. I want to know where and why.”

Konstantin Vasiliev blinks. “I am here for Nadia.”

“I am Nadia.”

His frown makes you want to laugh. He frowns like an old friend.

“I work for a particular organization. We take care of pests. Nadia has a certain skill set that would be a good fit for the job. Unfortunately, our job is very…” He scratches at a beard and thinks for a moment. “Exclusive. We cannot take people we do not need.”

So you decide to make him need you instead. 

You wanted her, but you want you more.

**Author's Note:**

> kudos and comments make the author happy


End file.
